Ridicule

By Anonymous, Freehold, NJ

Image Credit: Hui Y., Potsdam, NY

The author's comments:

This is a true story about what I went through a little while back, I still try to overcome my pain. My life hasn't really changed since then. I'm still constantly bullied by these boys, as well as many others

Ridicule. People seem to throw it around like it's nothing, like it doesn't matter. They don’t care who they’re making fun of, because it makes them look better. If only they knew how hate affects the gentle balance between life... And death. Ask anyone, anyone who's gone through the hate of the world. The deep emotional turmoil of knowing that some people would rather that you'd never been born. I'd always been different. I like it that way; I like to know that I don't conform to anyone's definition of me. I come to school in puffy skirts and ripped up jeans. Either wearing dark colors, such as black or bright crazy colored shirts and skinny jeans. I don't smile, or laugh, not in public. Not where I might be noticed. I go through each day, bottling in the pain with a blank frown upon my face. Now that you know about me... Let me tell you my story. But before I do. Let me tell you my goal. My goal is that by the time you're done reading this story, you'll stop. Stop the antagonism. Stop the never ending judgments. Just... Stop. School: I sit down and begin to copy down the homework, only to hear my name being called. Oh dear god... not again. I turn to look at the source of the whispering. "Kimmmm... Kim...." I find myself looking right into the eyes of a devil in disguise, Tyler. He held up his binder, and I tilted my head in confusion. Then I noticed the writing scribbled onto the binder in messy handwriting. Words so horrible I can’t even write them. There is no angry thoughts in my mind, only the words: Oh god... It's happening again. I tried to downcast my head only to hear my name, again, from the other side of the room. “Don’t look… Don’t….” I said so softly to myself. But of course, I did, Right into the eyes of Max. He did his usual thing and snapped, point his fingers into a gunpoint at me. I felt tears spring to my eyes. Now I know you’re all thinking “So what? That wasn’t mean! He’s trying to be cool! Maybe he likes you, maybe they both do…” Well, I hate to burst your bubble. But they don’t, and it does hurt. They invented this snap and point mechanism just to get to me. Something they can do and look like they’re just being playful. The teacher can’t yell at them for that. Well, if you knew these boys, all they’ve done to me, you’d understand. I bet some of you already do. Those of you who have gone through bullying, from guys or girls. I hardly notice the bell ring, as I’m too busy trying to block out the noise of their snickers. I slowly stand up and make my way to science class.

I walk into science and sit down, peeking up only to see Dmitri giving me a look. That look that says I’m not worthy to be in his presence. Not worthy to be in his school, breathing his air. That look that says I’m not worthy of being alive. I sighed and turned to look at my teacher and saw someone else watching me. Of course, Eric. Eric was the worst of them all, because he physically hurt me before, not on school grounds of course. But our families hated each other to the point we once had to get the cops involved in a threat involving a knife from him towards my little cousin. He screamed, “Ew!” The second I caught his eye, causing Dmitri to laugh. I sunk down in my desk, closed my eyes and waited to die.

Home: I ran off the bus, hearing Eric talking about to me to my so called friend Kristen, yes he’s on my bus too. I rushed inside chucking my backpack to the ground. I’d had it. I just couldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t want to, and quite frankly, I didn’t have to. I ran to the kitchen, intending to get an apple. But I stopped as a passed a drawer. Very slowly and quietly I opened it, pulling out something and tucking it into my pocket, pulling my shirt over it. I slammed the door to my room and felt the house shake under the force. I pulled my shirt up to reveal a black handle. I gently pulled on the handle, to reveal a sharp knife, one usually used to cut into meat. I sat down, on my bed and pulled the covers over me. I dragged it softly across my wrist; causing a thin scarlet line of blood. I repeated this, in the same spot, four times. Each time wincing and whispering through the tears, “One for every person who’d like to see me suffer… One for every person who wants me dead… One for every person who would kill me if they could… One for every person, who likes to ridicule… “

Subscribe

Get Teen Ink’s 48-page monthly print edition. Written by teens since 1989.